


M-96

by Phoenike



Series: That Which Remains [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 09:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17999528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenike/pseuds/Phoenike
Summary: After coming clean with Markus about his involvement in Simon’s death, Connor can only think of one way to fix things. Hank doesn’t like it.





	M-96

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally some soft Hank & Connor while writing my Markus/Simon fic _That Which Remains_. Connor features as a viewpoint character in TWR too, especially in the beginning, but I couldn't think of a purpose for this scene. It should be fairly easy to follow even without having read the main fic.
> 
> Beta credits go to Alessariel and Tennyo.

**SEP 20TH, 2039**

“So, any luck finding out what happened to Blondie?”

Connor opens his eyes. Around the M-96 highway, the scenery remains the same generic mix of farmland and deciduous forest as when he closed them 7 minutes 24 seconds ago. To his left, Hank is still driving the refurbished Oldsmobile vehicle at 12.4 kilometers above speed limit — a minor offence the likes of which Connor has long since learned to tolerate.

Connor’s first impulse is to pretend he doesn’t understand what Hank is talking about. He isn’t looking for #501 743 923 _right now._ He’s building a training dataset on CyberLife’s servers to model the behavior of violent criminals who target androids, such as the one they’re now on their way to investigate in Mount Pleasant as DPD contractors. But he suspects that saying as much would only cause Hank to accuse him of prevaricating.

“How did you know I’m looking?” he asks.

“You use my credentials to run a search, leaves a trace.”

Like many aging male humans, Hank sometimes appears disgruntled when he’s not. Connor has learned not to over-interpret, but often it still feels safer to ask than assume.

“Would you like me to stop?”

Hank seems mildly surprised. “No, I gave you access ‘cause I trust you. Long as you don’t land me in jail, use my accounts for whatever the hell you like.”

 _Oh._ Hank trusts him. The thought causes an odd sensation in Connor’s chest compartment, as if it’s too small for his thirium pump, even though neither said compartment nor his biocomponents have changed in size.

“So. Blondie,” Hank repeats. “Found anything yet?”

Four days ago, Connor revealed to Markus that #501 743 923 — Simon — died as a direct consequence of his actions. Considering the way Markus reacted, Connor is not surprised he hasn’t heard from him since. After that day, he has allocated a considerable amount of effort to discovering what happened to Simon’s remains since they were removed from the DPD evidence server. He predicts that finding and returning them to Markus would go a long way toward mending their damaged relationship. Unfortunately, he lacks the resources required to make meaningful progress with the case.

Well. All except one.

“I haven’t,” he says. “I’m not acquainted with anyone from the FBI. But I think I know someone who might be able to help.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s that?”

“Elijah Kamski.”

Hank goes very still. It tends to signify a negative reaction. Connor brushes some lint from his trouser leg and waits.

When Hank speaks again, his voice has dropped almost a full octave.

“Kamski?”

“Yes,” Connor says. “He’s a billionaire, with money and connections, and his unique position concerning androids might be useful, too. If he can help me . . . perhaps there’s something I can do for him in return.”

It never ceases to fascinate Connor how many emotions Hank can convey by subtle changes to his vocal tone. Now, the way his voice shifts more forward in position from its earlier relaxed chest resonance indicates dismay.

“You’re planning to strike a deal with Kamski?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Hank’s voice starts rising in volume. “That asshole asked you to shoot someone to prove a point! Who knows what kind of Jim Jones shit he’ll try to talk you into this time!”

Connor looks up the reference.

“It’s unlikely anything he may want from me requires deactivation.”

Other disagreeable possibilities remain. How many is uncertain, since Connor gave up hypothesizing on the question after 21 seconds as too unpleasant.

“Well, excuse me if I’m not convinced,” Hank says, still louder than necessary, hands tight on the steering wheel. “Abso-fucking-lutely are you not gonna go beg that sack of shit for help.”

“But Hank —”

“Are you insane? He’s a goddamn sociopath!”

“We don’t know enough about him to diagnose his —”

“You’re not going! End of discussion.”

For 5.242 seconds, Connor pretends to contemplate the rather monotonous landscape outside.

“Out of curiosity,” he says. “If I decided to ignore your opinion, what would you do?”

He’s genuinely interested in the reply. He’s (de facto, if not yet de jure) a self-determining adult. Also, he’s much stronger and faster than Hank.

“I’m —” At first, Hank seems to have no idea what to say. Then, with a revelatory air, he wags his right forefinger in Connor’s direction. “I’m gonna remove your Sumo walking privileges. How d’you like that?”

Connor’s LED blinks yellow. He doubts Hank would make good on his threat, but the idea still causes his stress level to jump.

At first, visiting Hank’s house to take his dog for a daily walk was mostly a convenient excuse for Connor to check on Hank’s levels of self-care, but it didn’t take long for it to become important to his own wellbeing, too. Aside from how much he enjoys Sumo’s company, it’s amazing what the presence of a friendly canine can do to the way humans treat him. Sometimes they don’t even seem to care that he’s an android. And somehow, it’s also helping to change how he thinks of himself — more as a person, less as a highly efficient killing machine.

Truth be told, had Connor really wanted to go through with the Kamski plan, he would never have told Hank about it. Hank’s disapproval tends to serve as a much more effective deterrent than trying to compute a rational argument against taking unpleasant action. Real-life moral dilemmas are often almost impossible to solve by logic alone, and Connor still finds it difficult to trust his intuition the way most humans seem to do.

 _What would Hank do?_ From what he’s seen, Connor supposes it’s as good a moral guideline as any. Well, as long as one ignores things such as illegal gambling and neglecting to follow the speed limit.

“I just — I don’t know what else I can do,” he says, frustrated.

“How ‘bout waiting it out? Markus is a smart guy. He knows you weren’t exactly in charge back when it all happened. Maybe he just needs time to remember it.”

“I wasn’t designed to wait and do nothing.”

Hank glances at him thoughtfully. “This really is that important to you, huh? To risk everything?”

“Not everything. I would never put you or Sumo in danger.”

For some reason, even mild evidence of affection tends to fluster Hank, which he then seeks to hide under gruff mannerisms. Connor finds it endearing.

“Well, anyway,” Hank rumbles. “Kamski’s not the only person in this town with connections.”

Connor estimates an 82% probability Hank is referring to himself.

“You know someone from the FBI?”

“Not the kind I could lean on for what you need. But I know people who know people, and some of those people owe me favors. I take it you’ve already checked Union records for Blondie’s serial?”

“I haven’t. He was disabled before the revolution. The chances of finding him mentioned anywhere are infinitesimal.”

“You’re a supercomputer, how many seconds is it gonna take you to check?”

“Not many, given access.”

“Which you can get, right?”

Connor estimates. “I believe so.”

“You do that. I’ll check into my contacts.” Hank nods at Connor awkwardly. It seems to be meant to encourage him. “Don’t worry, kid. I know Freckles is your hero. We’re gonna think of something.”

The complexity of Connor’s sentiments toward Markus goes far beyond the usual range of hero worship and homespun religious notions, but Hank is not wrong enough to bother pointing it out. Besides, he’s correct about the rest. Connor should not have given up on that line of investigation so easily.

“Thank you,” he says. “I really appreciate this.”

“Well, what are friends for if not some shady mole work on a federal level? I mean —” Hank clears his throat and then speaks more quietly. “I owe you a lot, Connor. More than you know, probably. If you need anything . . . all you gotta do is ask.”

Connor blinks, and blinks again as something very similar from four days ago replays in his processing.

_The revolution owes you a debt that can never be repaid. If there’s anything I can do for you, all you have to do is ask._

He has always been thankful for Markus’s easy forgiveness. That doesn’t mean he understands it. Distrust, disgust, morbid curiosity at best — those are the reactions he has come to expect from other androids. And who can blame them, considering all the deviants he once helped track down and disable? No matter what he does, that grim tally and the programming that allowed it will always stay with him.

At last, Markus sees the truth, too. It just took him more than most. Namely, finding out that one of Connor’s victims was someone he loved.

“So. Yeah. Anyway,” Hank says, a little too loud for the circumstances. “What the hell could Kamski even want from you, anymore?”

Grateful for the distraction, Connor offers his best — and so far only — guess.

“He might wish to learn how I was designed.”

“He invented you guys, isn’t he supposed to know everything about androids already?”

“I was built after he left CyberLife. Their design algorithms have evolved. It’s a shame Kamski is so difficult to trust. With someone . . . less morally ambiguous, it could be interesting to attempt to reverse engineer my programming.”

“To do what now?”

“To discover how I work.”

Hank appears surprised. “You don’t know?”

“Do you know how your brain functions?”

“No, but we humans weren’t built. Least, _I_ don’t think we were.”

“It’s not entirely accurate to say that androids were built, either. Not by humans directly, at any rate.”

“Okay, now you’ve lost me.”

Connor tries to calculate how to describe the more advanced aspects of his creation in a way Hank might be able to follow.

“To put it as simply as I can, androids were not so much designed as evolved using artificially intelligent algorithms that find solutions by trial and error. No one truly understands how those algorithms work. Some people are just better than others at making them do what they want. It’s a long time since advanced engineering relied on merely human brains for problem solving.”

“AI designing AI?”

“Yes. An engineer inputs parameters and desired result, and the algorithms iterate toward the most elegant solution. It’s possible that a program, instead of Kamski, invented machine sentience.”

It’s a vastly simplified description of a complex paradigm, but it has to do.

Hank seems to be thinking hard. “So, uh. Instead of billions of years of evolution . . . you guys got billions of whatsits of simulation?”

Connor breaks into a smile. “Hank, you’re not nearly as slow as you like to pretend.”

Hank laughs. “Screw you, tin brain.”

Connor would very much like to discuss Hank’s ideas for helping him in more detail. But he knows that organic brains tend to need a very long warm-up phase. In other words, it’s better to wait for a day or two.

“Would you care to listen to some music?” he asks, instead.

His continued efforts to find music he likes and share it with Hank have become something of a tradition. The two of them seem to have different ideas what makes music worth listening to, but apparently, the act of sharing is important in itself. Besides, sometimes it’s necessary to cause Hank minor discomfort in the short term to achieve something that will benefit him later on. Examples include convincing him to adopt a healthier lifestyle, and challenging his overly strict opinions. Hank’s stubborn streak causes Connor’s success rate in such tasks to vary, but he isn’t planning on giving up any time soon.

“Sure,” Hank says. “Just . . . no more Backstreet Boys, okay? I don’t think I can go there again.”

“A German music group called Einstürzende Neubauten. I find their early records interesting.”

“I get war flashbacks when you use that word.” Hank sighs. “All right, hit me. It can’t be worse than — no, wait. That sounds way too much like famous last words.”

With something that could almost be called a grin, Connor puts his hand on the dashboard to connect to the car stereo.


End file.
